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1866 






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OLIVER CARLETON BENTLEY. 



DECEMBEB, 1866. 




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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
OLIVER CARLETON BENTLEY, 

111 tlic Clerk's Oflice of the District Court of the Xortheni District of \ew York. 



TO MY PARENTS, 

BENEATH WHOSE EOOF IT WAS WRITTEN, 

THIS POEM 

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



Perhaps notliing in these pages will aj^pear strange or 
improbable to those who are familiar with the character 
of the French People, and with the history of the French 
Eevolution . 

That terrible crisis, when, in France the Old Mon- 
archy, and the Old Nobility were swept away, produced 
some of the brightest examples of affection, constancy, 
courage, fortitude and self-abnegation w^hicli adorn the 
history of humanity, together with almost every crime that 
disgraces it. 

History fondly records the constancy of Madame La- 
vergne. She was one of the most beautiful women of 
France, forty years younger than her husband, and the 
beauty of her person was only surj^assed by that of her 
mind and character. 

From this incident of the French Revolution the Au- 
thor received the idea of this Poem, which, notwithstand- 
ing its defects, he trusts will be found worthy of perusal. 



,^- 



$$$ ■ 

^ElLOWEK or ^OUSSILLON. 

.AY'S ensign, in the arching West, still flames; 
^j}^l^But, less'ning, glows: Swift, Angel hands methinks. 
Are gathering in its radiant folds, 

\Soon to spread anew, in Orient skies 
Beyond the Sea. I love this tranquil hpnr, 
It seems to me a blessed time of truce. 
Between our present cares, and those to come— 
The Isthmus, where our guardian angel 
Stands, and points unto the future, and the 
Past. My Husband comes not yet, I know not 
Why he is detained, I thought to find him 
Here, it is his favorite walk at day's 
Decline. How often to this rustic seat, 
When the last sunbeams stretch along the glades, 




8 



He bends his quiet steps, here loves to rest, 

And turns his thoughtful gaze upon the iDarting 

Orb; here hngers, till, the glorious flush 

Has died on dale and hill, and in changing 

Sky, Night's pale Star, her trembling beacon shows: 

Oft, have I joined him here, and smiled to see 

The sunset kiss his silver hair, till, it 

Did blush with hues, warm as his noble heart. 

Scarce five inconstant months have fled away, 

Since, in the old Chateau of Eoussillon, 

My dear Ancestral home, to Count Lavergne, 

My father's friend, I gave my maiden hand. 

I do remember well the morning fair. 

And never can forget, what e'er may come — 

Spring, on our South, had breathed with balmy breath. 

And rich, the Almond trees their blossoms showed. 

My sunny, native vale was gay with, flowers, 

And the glad vine, its youngest leaves displayed; 

High, in the stainless blue, the Pyrenees 

Drew their tall forms, and nearer seemed to gi-ow, 



g 



In the serene, and buoyant atmosphere, 
As if, to take their farewell of the bride, 
Whose early years, their watchful summits viewed; 
Each form of joyous nature, seemed to give 
Some tender sign, to touch my pensive heart. 
Thus, to recall, our past companionship, 
And all the j)leasant days enjoyed with them; 
The old Chateau's gTay walls, and ]3ointed roofs 
•Wrapt in the matin glory, tranquil stood,—- 
Like age, enjoying some delicious day. 
There was a mute reproach in its repose — 
A melancholy in its quiet smile. 
That, to my heart, with mystic accents spoke. 
Sadly, I jmssed through all its ancient rooms, 
And sighed, 'farewell,' and kissed the silent doors; 
But, when I came, to that where I was born — 
My Mother's room, and mine from infancy. 
Where, to bequeath me life, she gave her own, 
And, saw her faded portrait hanging there — 
The chair — the stand — the things that once were hers,- 



10 



The flowers my care had nourished into bloom — 
The birds I'd taught to warble at mj call, 
I could no more, my heart dissolved in tears, 
An utter giief did grasp my swelling throat, 
'Twas more than grief, 'twas sadness iniinite. 
Oppressive, vast, a sombre shadow o'er 
My si)irit crept, and something in my soul 
Did whisper vagTie, * Thou never wilt behold 
These scenes again.' FareweU, farewell I gasp'd,— 
The clock, responsive to my bursting sobs, 
"With measiu'ed voice, alone the silence broke, 
When to the room my gray-haired father came— 
* Weej) not my child!' he said, ' 'Twill not be long, 
Ere thou return, to gladden us again. 
Thy treasures here shall be our constant choice 
To guard and cherish with attention kind. 
And all things that thou lov'st, receive our care. 
And still remain unchanged, as thou dost leave, 
To welcome thee again, beneath our roof. 
Thy huaband, and the carriage waiting are, 



u 



To bear tliee from us for a brief sojoiuii. 

Soon, in the world's gay smile, and changing scenes. 

Thy transient grief Avill quickly pass away, 

And life assume, once more, youth's rosy hue; 

And blooming, happy, thou wilt soon return. 

To make our homestead sad, rejoice again." 

I could not answer to my father's words, 
A voiceless sorrow dried my trembhng Hi^s. 
His thin gi-ey hair, his pale, and care-worn face. 
Smote like keen daggers to my aching heart; 
I saw the brave old man with nature strive. 
At i^arting with his darling, only one, 
And all hispatient kindness unto me. 
His tender care, through all my girlish years, 
Rushed like a torrent, vivid, through my soul. 
In silent anguish, on his neck I hung, 
With all a daughter's love, in last embrace; 
My mother's semblance, oft, with mournful lips 
I pressed, then, slowly, from that dear retiieat, 



12 

Where, I do fear I ne'er shall enter more, 
With tearfnl, backward, and dejected gaze, 
With falt'ring feet, my unknown path begTin. 

With weak and fainting step?, along the hall, 

To the gTCT Chateau's front, I did repair; 

Where, thus their lore to show, and say, -farewell,' 

The old retainers of our house, had come. 

Between my husband, and my father, there. 

To all I came, and gave the j^arting hand. 

Theh honest faces, grew to me more fair, 

In that last hour, and they did seem like friends. 

Whom kindi'ed ties, unto our hearts do bind. 

Then, in the carriage i)laced — I saw through tears— 

The horses sin'ang — 'to all adieu I father. 

Adieu I' I cried. I saw the gathering 

Moisture of his eye, and the quick motion 

Of his quivering lip, and turned away — the 

Mountains blue, and towering, met my eye. 

*Ye, too, receive the parting bride's salute! 



13 



dear, familiar mountains!' then I said, 

* Blue Pyrenees ! receive my last farewell !' 

And tliou! sweet rippling stream, so pure and biiglit, 

That, winding, sparldes by my childhood's home. 

Thou! too, received my last, my fond adieu. 

No more I'll linger on thy margin green, 

'Neath the elms that giiard thy murmuring breast, 

1 feel that all my days with thee, are o'er; 
Days, softly gliding, like thyself, away! 
Ah me ! what shadows hover o'er me now? 
Unwelcome things flit round, impalpable; 
They bear me ill — my mind is not deceived— 
The subtle, spiritual barometer, 

Keveals the coming woe, though hid from sense. 
It hears afar, the wierd, and fearful wings. 
And with its tremors, sounds the sure alarm — 
My husband, still, not here — it is most strange ! 
I will return, night grows heavy on me!" 

Thus, in the twilight of an autumn day. 



14 



Wliile slow, the red liglit facled in tlie West, 
And eve's attendant planets, brighter grew, 
Marie Lavergne, the baron's youthful wife, 
In sad soliloquy, her thoughts expressed. 
A fairer woman, France could not produce, 
France, rich in heroines, and lovely ones. 
A nobler heart, ne'er beat in all her vales, 
A truer one, ne'er broke on all her soil. 
Sweet, as her native heaven, her soft, brown eyes, 
Beamed meekly bright, with tenderness and truth ; 
Her pure, and earnest face, was innocence 
Enshrined in Hneaments of perfect mould ; 
And mingling there, expressions all divine. 
Together blent, in one mild radiance lost, 
Like distant suns that fleck infinity. 
Like ripe chestnuts of her native slopes, in 
Color was her hair, silken, flowing, long- 
As the brown lichens of the ocean caves, 
And nameless graces, round her lovely form, 
Flowed like a veil, invisible, yet felt. 



15 



Scarce twenty birth days, had upon her dawned, 
When, from her peaceful home she came a bride. 

Beneath a tree she sat, that, from a mound, 

Rose like a verdant column o'er the scene, 

And from the eminence, she over-looked 

The grounds, and park, that smiling round Vorlono, 

Her husband's, fair, hereditary seat, 

Spread green in nature's beautiful design. 

And from the pleasant spot, the view embraced 

The winding Loire, and through its charming vale, 

Groves, vinyards, fields, and hamlets interspersed. 

It was the year volcanic, ^vhen all France, 
Mad, with most cruel, and convulsive throes, 
From social de^Dths, unknow^n, and unseen here. 
With dire eruption, threw^ her monsters forth. 
Of human semblance oft, but fiends of hell. 
Cold, cunning, cruel, and remorseless things — 
Sinister, implacable, and loathsome shapes, 



16 



Who, lying dormant, or in wait, till then, 
Brought to the surface, and to sovereign power, 
With horror filled the world, and did outrage 
Both man, and beast, and nature's ev'ry form. 
With insults hideous, terrible, and dread, 
Excesses monstrous, huge, incredible. 
Crimes hopeless, awful, vast, without a name. 
And scouted God, and dared omnixDotence . . 
Thus, by severe experience, teaching men, . 
That cruelty, most dev'lish form assumes, 
When, to vile demagogues, the power is given 
To rule the state, and please the ba«e and low. 

BLit he who came. not, while the twilight waned. 
To her, who i>ensive, waited there alone — 
Lavergne, v>-as then, with haste, and strictest guard. 
On the road to Paris, journe^dng fast. 
Short time before, commandant of Long^^y, 
He was by stern necessity, compelled, 
Unto the Prussians to resign the place, 



ir 



Accused of treason without cause, or proof, 
But for a specious plea, their hate to veil — 
He was by order of the Committee, 
Self styled, of ' 'Public Safety," under baUn; 
And seized, that very night, quite near the door 
Of his own house, yet not his people, or 
His wife aware; into a carriage thrust. 
And hurried off with most malicious speed; 
Without the grace, or consolation poor, 
Of parting interview with his young bride; 
With haste infernal, hurried from his home. 
Without of garments, e'en the slightest change; 
To Paris was he brought, to be confined 
Like some great malefactor, in close ward; 
There, to await his trial, as was said. 
But, in fact, the time, his savage Judges 
Might select, their victim to arraign; and 
With bold, mocking forms, questions most absurd, 
Frightful pleasantry, and atrocious smiles, 
Malice untiring, inexorable, 



18 

And calm, witliout remorse, or mercer's tliouglit, 
Pronounce the fatal sentence as of coui'se, 
AMiich, to tlie weaiy Guillontine, consigned 
"Witliout delay, eacli young or aged kead. 

Thus, in the gloomy prison, brave Lavergnc 
Lay, torn v^'ith. mental sorrow most acute. 
"Within those dreadful walls, each gTief was pent, 
That e'er with mortal anguish wrung the soul. 
And few had ever passed from their embrace, 
Except to look the last on things of earth. 
AU sights and sounds, and shades of deep disti-ess 
That cnish humanity, those wails had seen 
And heard. AH, that e'er disgraced, or shamed, 
x^nd all, that could ennoble, glorify — 
Wails, gToans, and tears, and bitter fear of death- 
Sighs, sobs, and shiieks, and maledictions dread- 
Songs, hymns, and prayers— Affection's deathless voice- 
Despair's vrHd eye, and crouching, shiv'ring form- 
Meek Resignation, soaring o'er its clay — 



ig 



Faitli, her strong pinions spreading to the gaze — 
And eyes, in whose serene and placid depths, 
The light of Heaven, immortal, dawned on earth — 
Grand, PhilosoiDhic Spirits, seeing all, 
And calm, discoursing on the future life — 
Wondering where, to-morrow, they would be, 
If, from existence struck — an utter blank, 
Or, conscious, sentient, and reabsorbed 
In the vast bosom of the Infinite. 
And woman, oft, her guise celestial, wore, 
Half, through her mortal veil, the seraph shone. 
Like, some bright thing, beneath the shading wave : 
Hope, Fortitude, Beligion, round her came, 
Dis]3layed their sliining wings, and courage gave; 
They bore her up, and strength of mind, infused. 
Which, oft, to fainting manhood she did bring. 
With peace, and cheer, and disregard of death. 

There, on his bed of straw, the worn Lavergne 
Tossed through the wretched hours, a mournful sight; 



20 



Soon, in liis veius, a ^vasting fever burned, 

"Wild Delirium, ^anton'd through his brain; 

All shajDes, and scenes, that phrensy'd fancy wakes, 

Seized the unguarded chambers of his mind, 

Crowded its i)lastic halls, in riot wild, 

Like mobs, in some high palace, they have gained; 

This Avas the boon, the gallant Count received, 

For all the fields, that he had fought for France, 

And all the wounds that scarred his manly breast: 

A soldier bred, he had, for forty years, 

Served well his country, with a loyal heart. 

And with unblemished honor, to his name; 

In peace, or war, the zealous, brave Lavergne, 

"Was ready, when his King, or Country called. 

Either, to giace his Monarch's splendid Court, 

Or, draw his sword, Vvhen honor bade him arm. 

Or innocence, and weakness claimed his aid: 

No act unmanly, no luihallowed deed. 

By him committed, e'er had stained his name; 

A courteous foe — a true and willing friend. 



21 



A firm protector, and a Steward just, 
A lib'ral helper of the struggHng poor, 
A gen'rous aider of forlorn distress, 

A iDatron kind, of merit, yet unknown; 

Of tall, imx)ressive form, and bearing liigh, 

His sixty years, half hid their chilly heads; 

His hale, and noble face, showed thoughtful, mild, 

As shows October's, in the twelve-faced year; 

When, brown, serene, he comes, mature and rich, 

With all his fruits, his stilly, tranquil days, 

And golden light, slow on his motley way; 

Chivalric, -pure, and good, the Count Lavergne 

Ennobled was by nature, and by birth; 

A character so bright, could not esca]pe 

The fierce proscription of those dreadful times. 

In arms, his comrade was Count Eou«sillon — 
The father of his bride, and, of himself 
The brilliant counteri)art, in soul and thought; 
Their boyish days, were all, together spent. 



22 

\ 

Together they had marched, together fought, 
Together were their souls in friendship knit: 
Lavergne, unwedded, till, in ripening age, 
Saw then, the daughter of his dearest friend, 
And loved her — TNith a tender, yearning love; 
Calm, deep, and pure, eternal in its flow, 
Full on his heart, the ardent torrent rolled ; 
But, years had mellow 'd, aU its fiery glow; 
So, from the South, some genial, spring-hke day 
Escapes, and wanders on the balmy wind. 
Where Autumn frosts, lie cold on northern hiUs. 
xlnd, was his love returned, with measure full, 
With joy-abounding satisfaction rich. 
By one so young and beautiful as she? 
Youth, in the freshness of the heart resides, 
And withered age, may oft, unseen exist, 
Where not a sign appears; and glossy hair. 
Is yet as dark as Night's star -fretted wings; 
And youth, in changeful mood, himself disguise, 
In locks as wliite, as far Andesan snows; 



Mind, sees alone, the lustre of the mind, 
And all unconscious, views the seal of years; 
The amaranthine wreath, that, round the i3ure 
And good, draws its immortal zone, conceals 
The marks of time, and circles kindred sonls 
In one embrace, where youth and age are lost. 

With hast'ning feet, and filled with strange alarm. 
Back to the Mansion, sped the boding wife; 
The Oaks upon her path, increased the shade, 
And rustled in the low, and fitful thrih, 
That darkness sends, along the frighten VI air, 
And Nature's secret voices, which awake 
When all is still, amid the falling night, 
Their monologues mysterious commenced; 
They mourned she thought of her, or in language 
Wierd, responsive, intelligence announced, 
Unknown to her, and faster grew her stejis. 
And loud and quick, her anxious heart throbbed in 
Her breast, and tumultuous, told its fears; 



24 



At last, all breathless, to the tall Chateau, 
The startled lady eaine, ihroiigli'its^^ori^^bild 
Dusky halls, swift as a shadt>W'glidm'g;"' * '" 
JBer Q^Taj^a^rtmeiits fbuiid, aM*-th;eWffict i^est ; 
Brntv i»< ^^^ ^conscious i'ooms a istilinefei?' iftep t ; ' 
No yoiee , did gree* = her* • =\Vith' '^iidi^hf^^ '.^pey eii — 
No form familiar, in acctistdtneds^h't; 
Its one small word, the ticking clock expressed, 
Pistinct and clear, and louder: thfin:iM:i^'ont, ' -' 
And nature's monk^ black-giidiia^.fr^aiiihis; -eell. 
The cricket J th,<?re , Iiis plaintive .rosary ; tc4d: ; ^ • ' 
The house was liushi?ig in. the, . ey'iiiH^'^hrouf r,- ■ ^ 
At times, soi]ae oareles^^/iaugbi^ orpine* t>fis(>ng,^^' 
Or distant :|iiurmurs rea,<?Jiecl hei! 'li«t'in]!i^''elL*f,^ ^ 
And blen<Jing, . ri^stiing sound,^, ^t^bem liighit 'd^^cends 
Like sonie cjark bird, -deep .^et^ling 'dn. its i^M^ • 
Short time she mused, her feelings- to ^feompof^e^. 
Then, for her own attendant maiden called; 
And to her said, ' • Lucie ! where is the Count ? 
Him, have I seen not, since this room I left, 



25 



Where is my husband, tell me, dost thou know?" 
The girl rei^lied, ''Madam ! I know not where 
The Count may be, not in tlie Chateau lias 
He been, since thou dismiss'd me ior thy walk." 
"Lucie, haste! and unto me the Steward 
Of the Chateau bring ; he may us inform. " 
Struck with contagious fear, the girl upon 
Her message flew, and with the > Steward, quick 
Eetumed : the old man bowing low, . before 
The Countess stood, who, eag^r,. him, ad^Jressed* 
"■ Yvliere is the Count Lavergne to-night ?. thou. sure 
Must know !" He answered, "Madam! not; in the 
Chateau, is the Count ; unkyown to me his 
Absence was, I much regret to say, my 
Master spoke not of absence unto me, . . 
Perhaps, he yet doth Hnger in the grounds.;' 
"No ! think it not !" She said, "He is not there ! 
I do much fear some mishap to the Go\int ! 
Go I search the park, and to the village; go, , 
And to our neighbor's Chateau, Count de Moine's, 



26 

Haste ! speed away ! and all the houseliold take ! 
Search ev'rj^vhere ! and come not back, until 
To me, thou bring my husband, or at least 
Some tidings of hiin absent, good or ill I 
Jjucie ! 'till they return, remain with me I" 

Alarmed, the Steward hurri'dly retired, 

And taking all his force, set out at once ; 

O'er all the park, and all the place they rushed, 

And to the village, searched, on all the ways. 

Meanwhile, the wife, filled with forebodings drear, 

With feet impatient, weary, traced the floor, 

Or, in fitful rest, then- return did wait. 

And racked, and tortured, by the gloomy things. 

That, Fancy loves to call, from her unseen, 

And vast, proHfic realm, when we await, 

Ners^ous and restless, for the coming dear, 

Of some beloved one, and strange delayed. 

Expected long before : Or when we wait 

For tidings, of some strangely silent friend^ 



27 

Or, disappearing one, who goes without 
A word of parting, or a sign, sudden, 
Mysterious, like some departing birds. 

Thus, had time's sentry, on the mantle placed, 
Of its twelve constant watchwords given two. 
When, from his active quest, the Steward came. 
And with him, all the servants of the house. 
His grave, sad face bespoke the news he bore. 
With feet reluctant, to the Countess, straight 
The messenger of sorrow took his way. 
He met her, hast'ning to the Chateau's door, 
His face revealed what yet his tongue denied. 
Him, by the arm she seized : '*tliy countenance 
Alarms me ! quick ! to my room ! speak, oh speak !" 
She said, '' What of my husband ? where is he ?" — 
With trembling voice, the Steward, gently I)roke, 
The sad intelligence that he had gained. 

** Perhaps, my dear loved mistress !" he exclaimed, 



28 



'*' 'Tis not so bad, as it now seems to 'Be/'' "^ - -.-* ♦ 

The Count de Moine informs me, that; no doubt 

My Master soon -n^^II be at hbertj. ' 

'Tis some mistake, he thinks, that being known, 

France, quick wiU send my maM^i^ni^^cK'^gaiii,' 

And with a guard of honor, to Ms Iidnie. '^ .i> . .; ^.-^ 

And, Madam, at the yiRsigeTM; -k^ti^^''^" ■^^''^''' *''^'''^ "^'"' '"''"'"' '" 



An aged man ; who, there arrivM,"' traif M- 
Stained and worn, as night was' i61bsifig"ih" ■ O'ft 

For the Countess of Lavergne iilqiiii'^M,'^ aiifl^' ' ' ' ' -^- ^ ^ 

Peoi^le there, to the Chateau pointed paiii'*' 

His way. He, weary, I'ested by th'^'ctJoiV 

And from a x^ocket, took a little 'bi^Wll ;''''" 

But this, while eating there,' the' -^M^triaii tefl ' '■•-''^•■■'' 



His way. He, weary, rested by tM door. 



;,,! :ui\ lt5/.ti>iW* ir^'j;'-?'^v*5 '->•;!] 



Asleep, him we awoke, and Hvilhiis, 'Btdiight'" ' 
Hmi here. 

Silent and pale, the Oouiites^ heard." ' 
*' Lavergne, accused of treason!" Slife' ^xdiaimed, ' 
'^ The Count Lavergne arrested ! Oh my God ! 
Where then is faith, or loyaliy-tB'Kafiie ! — '* " ■' ' """ 



29 



LaYergne.il traitor I tlieniti up jone^.truai:.,.'-, 
France, is not .France ! Sl;e isforgetfuL m^d I 
Is she ungrateful to l^ei' noble spns? , r , = 
They will not send him back, those creatures Tile. — 
Their grasp is mortal ta. the, great and. good I — 
But I to him \vill go, and share Tvith him 
^Miat fate shall send; and — aye, both life and death 
My husband, my deai; husbapd in th^ir^^owef I 
For Paris will I start, this very night ! . . 
Cro ! bring the carriage to the door^ at once ' , 
Stay ! first to me bring, the aged jnjan of , r 
Whom thou spake !" ... , . ,. ,.t 

-irl :^.n'r vf/rp >^fd -^T«, Inu: ^^^H^q*^ 'V^ 1'*^! H- ^ 

Hast'ning from the room^ again 
The Steward came, and wJlh oAe whose sl^wDi^ders 
Bow'd, did, like his own, disclose a weight pf 
Years. The stranger's bleaching hair, discolored, 
Tangled hung. His visage thin, garments soiled, 
Showed one hard pressed by danger or distress. 
On the Countess fell his look — no word he 



30 



Spoke — but^kneeling on the floor, [lifted his 

Poor withered hands, and sunken eyes to heaven. 

And moved his Hps in blessing, or in prayer. 

Then, strove to rise, but, nature's strength gave way — 

*' Quick ! wine ! 'tis Jean, my father's old valet !" 

The countess said, *' Oh God ! what brings liim here !" 

Restored at length, by their attentions kind, 

And gently, on a seat recHning placed. 

Her guest forlorn, upon the Countess fixed 

His mournful eyes, and, in their faded orKs, 

The gath'ring tears dim in the lampHght shone. 

Of i: tried to speak, and oft, his quiv'ring Hps, 

Denied to words, expression of his woe. 

*' Tell me, my dear old friend ! the Countess said, 

*' Why, hast thou come, what sorrow hast thou brought ? 

Why thus dejected, weak, and woe-begone. 

And in this wretched plight, that pains my breast, 

Why, hast thou wander'd from far Roussillon ? 

What, of my father, and that home so dear ? 



31 



What tidings dost thou bring !" — 

Sudden, she ceased, 
A pallor o'er her features sprang, her white 
Arms listless hung, and on her drooping head. 
Eternal sorrow, placed its coronet. 
Faint beat the heart, so noble and so pure. 
Where, all sweet charities had come to dwell. 
Forestalling words, it then had almost broke 
Beneath the prescient, and mighty pang. 
Happy, j)erha]ps, if, then no more, its pulse 
Had woke, to bound, when strong, love's exalted 
Voice was heard, or when duty called anew. 

Slowly, reviving from her deathly swoon. 

Her ]3aHd face, the youthful Countess raised ; 

But, its expression, made her people weep. 

The same — yet changed. Something, blending there, 

Before unseen,— grief hopeless, pale, resigned, 

Patient weariness, resolution calm. 

To suffer and to bear. In that brief time, 



32 



Some hand invisible, liad drawn before 
The natural beauty of her face, a veil. 
Shadowy, thin, through which, the mind did view 
Her charms, as, through the atmosphere, we view 
The dark dome of the sky. 

Eecovering, 
She exclaimed, ''Now, tell me all, my friend, I 
Can bear to hear ! My father is no more — 
I feel — I know — and Nature's gentle hand, 
The silver cord did not unloose ; dread things 
Have hajjpened in the vale of Eoussillon ? 
Thou answer'st not ? Father ! my dear Father I 
Oh my God !" — a gasj), her accents broke — "Yes," 
She exclaimed, ''lonely is the old Chateau I" — 

*' Aye, Lady ! more than lonely ! " burst from lier 
Aged friend, " 'Tis in ruins ! Oh Lady ! — 
Countess of Lavergne !— My only friend ! Dear 
Child of my dear Master ! Thou, who, so longj 
I carried in these arms about the fair 



38 



Chateau, and shady walks of Eoussillon,— 
Forgive, an old man for the grief he brings ! — 
Whose slow feet, have scarce performed thy father's 
Last request ; and who will soon rejoin him, 
In the w^orld above. — KScarce six days ago, 
A mob of wTetches horrible, and vile, 
Led by a low, coarse, ruffian from Mars?illes, 
Upon our Chateau, without warning came ; 
And, wdth base cries, that I cannot repeat. 
Spreading o'er all the House, iiossession gained — 
We, no resistance made, nor could we then. 
With dreadful threats they came— Thy father brave, 
Heard them all unmoved, and, with unc^rered 
Head, before the door of thy apartments, 
Stood like a sentinel, tall, calm and firm, 
Awaiting their approach, — they, rushing came. 
'My friends ! ' he said, ' This room is sacred, none 
Can enter here, except o'er me, go where 
You will, and all you v>'ish receive, but spare, 
Eespect this door ! ' ' 'Tis Bousillon ! destroy 



34 



The old aristocrat I ' they cried, ' It is 
His treasure room, 'tis where he keeps his gold — 
Wrung from the x>eople ! ' ' Frenchmen ! ' thy father 
Said, ' Yes ! this is my treasure room, but no 
Gold is here — it is my daughter's, and her 
Dead mother's room. Oh : do not enter here ! ' 
' Down ! with the old aristocrat ! ' The fierce 
Crowd yelled, ' The hoary villian kill, and burn 
His nest ! ' — Raising an axe, a huge, brawny 
Scoundrel thy father struck, and, with a sigh. 
Motionless he fell, and o'er his bleeding 

Form, within the room all the monsters rushed. 
His wound was qflickly mortal, and to a 
Secret place, his body I conveyed, and 
Thought him dead, but his spirit lingered yet ; 
For a moment he revived, and knew me, — 
* My good Jean ! ' he faintly said, ' Jean, adieu ! 
Fly ! fly at once ! escape from here ! wait not 
For me ! 'tis my command ! go now I — .vhile yet 
You may ! bear to my child, the Countess of 






Lavergne^ lier dying father's blessing : and 

Tell her all gently ; Jean, my friend, gently ! 

And — Jean ! ' he feebly pressed my hand, and sighed, 

And ceased to breathe. I tied from the Chateau 

By a secret way, and from the hills, saw 

Smoke and flames rise o'er its ancient roofs, one 

Look I gave — then, with a bursting heart, the 

Journey long began — bearing a dying 

Father's blessing to his child ; I tarried 

Not, lest accident or men, should rnb me 

Of my i^recious freight, but with all speed my 

Weaken'd limbs could give, pressed on, both day and 

Night, and hither have I come, exhausted. 

Worn — thus, told thee all — my sad duty done." 

The old man ceased, and meekly clasp'd his hands, 
The sudden fervor faded from his look, 
And, on his sorrowing breast, his white head 
Bending, sank. 

At this recital, tears the 



36 



Steward's cheek's o'erflowecl, and from the servants, 

Chistering round, sobs quick and fast arose. 

But rigid, frozen, fixed, the Countess sat, 

Her face disconsolate, no tear drop gem'd. 

But, oh ! her look ! her look, description awes — 

Aghast, its powers retire ; hers, was a grief, 

That is not soothed by tears, — that is not soothed 

On earth — only, where the waters still, the 

Happy forms reflect, of those the Shepherd 

Leads, drank she the healing draught. Silent tliere 

Awhile, like one who neither sees, nor hears 

Aught, with a conscious mind, she sat, and then, 

As from a dream awaken' d, advancing 

Slow to Jean, kissed his snowy hair, and on 

His drooping head, her fair hand laid : " Oh, Jean !" 

She said, ^^my good, my kind old friend, all, all 

That's left to me of home — of Roussillon, 

Receive a daughter's thanks, a daughter's love, — 

I cannot weep, I cannot live, iny heart 

Is breaking, Jean ! Here, is thy home ; here, loved, 



37 

Revered, a sacred form, \\'ith us remain, 

And as a daughter ^vill I j^rove to tliee : 

Jean I will it please tliee to remain with me V* 

He answered not. '• He slee^is !" the Steward said. 

TJie Countess stooped, his aged face to view. 

And in a voice, whose solemn cadence, thrilled 

Each heart, exclaimed : '• Our friend will not remain I 

Here is not his home I he hath a house not 

Made with hands, and to it he has gone I He 

Too, has ceased to breathe I" 

■K- ^ -k -::- ^ -;:- -;;- 

Morning came, the day — and now, another 
Night had waned — another morning had on 
Paris dawned. The city vast, lay in its 
Deepest sleeii, like some bandit sure, who prowls 
By night— but sombre lay, sinister, and 
Flecked with blood, In the cool autiimii air, a 
Thousand smoky columns rose, ascending 
Straight, like witnesses, to heaven, of all the 



38 



Crimes, thatNiglit, accomiDlice of infernal 
Paris, had concealed, and all the tears, and 
Groans that she had hid. The streets deserted, 
Aad a look debauched, ashamed, and haggard 
Stretched, in drunken dishabille, dirty, strown. 
And, they were drunk — with blood — revellers in 
The richest blood of France. Here and there, some 
Red Eepnblican, suspicious crei3t along. 
On all things, turning his implacable 
And wolfish eyes. In the prime hour, the 
Guillotine stood ghastly, sullen, by the 
Light suri^rised ; like murderer, whose retreat 
Cut off, stands disclosed. — Justice confronting 
Suddenly, dappled with blood. The houses tall, 
Wore a bristling, cautious air, and all things 
By mysterious instinct, conscious seemed . 
One felt, that the gigantic, nervous town 
Had yielded, under i^rotest, to its sleej); 
And would awake cruel and cross, and thrice 
As active3 savage, from its slumber brief. 



39 



Within the prison of LaVergne, the timid 

Day peeped fearful and faint ; and round the bars, 

The neWj elastic air, came with its cool 

Touch, but all reluctant, ventured in the 

Hot, destroying place. Delirious, or 

Insensible, the Count felt not its breath, ' 

Nor saw those beams so i^ure, fresh from the throne 

Of God. But, God had sent his angel there, 

As fair a one, though clothed in mortal guise, 

As e'er to Peter, or Apostles came. 

Or saint, or martyr, from the realms of light, — ' 

The angel He had sent to Count Lavergne, 

Thus, to reward his just and useful life. 

And bear his soul to heaven, was one of 

An order bright, that, in his Providence, 

He oft has sent, to many a man less 

Good, — a true and noble w^ ife. 

Tenderly 
Beside the Count, upon the straw^ she knelt ; 
With her cloak, a jDillow^ made, and on it 



40 



Laid his head, she smooth'd his white, and matted 
Hair, and kissed his fevered lips, and gently 
On his burning brow, her cool soft hand she 
Pressed ; with fond expression to him spoke, with 
All endearing words, that love immortal _, 
E'er could prompt, but no response he gave, her 
Tender voice could not recall her husband's 
Wand'ring mind ; he heard it not, nor felt the 
Fragrant pressure of her hps, but moaning, 
Bestless, turned ; and incoherent, plaintive, 
Murmured of his bride, Yerlone, Eoussihon, 
And France. With care unwearied, all rehef 
To give she did ; bathing his wasted face, 
And rustling hair, and oft with gi*ateful draughts 
His dry lips Avet — but still he tossed in pain — 
She, seated on the straw, raised his restless 
Head, and laid it on her breast . Ui^on a 
Pillow so divine, e'en tierce, unconscious 
Fever felt a soothing thrill, relieved and 
Still, nature seemed to rest. That languid head 



41 



Su23porting, long she sat, her white face gleaming 
In the prison dusk, as marble polished, 
In the twilight shows. 

Soon, on highest Alps, 
The southern -journeying sun, in glory 
Stood ; and looked o'er France, and o'er her sinfnl 
Capital ; which, in his rising beams, lea^^ed 
Afi by signal, into action full ; and, 
Through the streets, the bands ferocious of the 
New repubhc poured. Bound the guillotine 
A crowd of creatures, frightful and debased, 
Waited the op'ning scene, and pleasure of 
The day. Others, Aveary of famihar 
Sight of dropping heads, knew not what to do, 
But complained of weariness, and pined for 
Something new. Others bent their way, to where 
'^Tlie Committee of General Safety" 
Their daily sessions held, for the so called 
Trial, and formal condemnation, of 
Accused, suspected, and unhappy ones. 



42 



Business iiacl there commenced, and one exclaimed 

^' Bring now before lis the Accused, Lavergne !" 

And soon within the prison walls, a hoarse 

Voice bawling cried, "The Committee send for 

Citizen Lavergne, accused by France of 

Treason!" The Countess s^^rang, " 'Tis false !" she said, 

' ' Him sick, insensible ? Thy do not send ! 

And France, my noble husband, does not charge 

With treason ! 'Tis most false !" ^'Citizeness 

Lavergne!" the jailor said, "I do ad^dse 

Thee to restrain thy tongue ! The Committee 

Send, and he must go !" '' Oh, Sir !" exclaimed the 

Fair, pallid wife, " Thou art a man ! thou see'st 

His state ! have pity on him, on me ! oh ! " 

Do not send him now ! and I, before the 

Committee, will haste, and of his trial 

Beg a short delay, — which they wdll gTant, I 

Know, refuse, they cannot, will not, of his 

Sickness they are not aware — oh ! help me, 

Help me now ! Sir 1 1 would not insult — would 



43 



Not offer aught — but gladly would I call 
Thee, friend, and the Countess of Lavergne will 
Happy be, with friends to share all that she 
Hath, both here and ev'rywhere ! 

''Go Madam !" 
The Jailor said, ''I am a Frenchman, though 
I do confess, oft, to forget the name ; 
But once, will I do a generous act, 
If for it they should quickly send for me, 
Till thou return, thy husband shall remain. 
Go ! and thee, may the good God grant success !" 

Mocking Justice in her hall, ranged on seats 
In form, sat the men, who, held the power 
In France, "of life and death : and absolute. 
Without ap]3eal. Before that cruel band, 
Might justly fear the bravest and the best. 
For, they beheld power unbounded, all 
Dreadful passions dire, embodied, each in 
Its human form distinct, and incarnate. 



44 



Sour Emy, bitter Hate, and tiger -like 

Peroeity of soul, inflexible. 

The benches all, aronncl the spacious room, 

By an attentive, eager crowd were filled. 

From an ante room advancing, before 

The Committee the Accuser Public 

Stood, and to them said : "The Citizeness 

Lavergne, urgent and'pressing, is waiting 

Here mth petition to the Committee 

To present !" "Let her be brought before us !" 

The President replied, "and we will hear !" 

With eager, anxious look, and rapid step, 
Before the dread array gliding silent, 
Quick, the young Countess came. Her hair, on a 
Dress of mourning, all disordered lay ; the 
Perfect whiteness of her neck, shone through its 
Covering rich : a dawning flush si)read o'erRhe 
Paleness of her charming face, and all the 
Brightness of her heavenly eyes, sorrow had 



45 



Not o'ercome. "With clasped liands, she cast a 
Timid glance uiDon the thousand strange, and 
Hostile eyes upon her bent, then, on the 
Judges her iDleading look, and thus addressed. 

* ' O Citizens of France I O Judges, of 

This tribunal, last, supreme ! humbly do 

I venture, your attention to obtain I 

I am the wife of Count Lavergne I — '-'And I, 

Forbid the word !" a Judge exclaimed, '' beware 

Citizeness ! France has aboKshed Counts ! 

Citizen of France, is honor's title !" — 

' ' Oh Sir ! Forgive me for the w^ord, I will 

Not use it more ; indeed, it did escape 

Me naturally — I would not offend 

Oh no I I am the wife of Citizen 

Lavergne, whose trial you have ordered now. 

This morn, before the light had plumed the cast, 

In Paris I arrived, and to piison 

Of my husband went direct ; him I found 



46 



Insensible, with fever's torture wrung — 

With him I watched — and to relieve, all in 

My power performed, and when yon summons came. 

With him I was — but left the poor old man. 

To hasten here, and crave tlie boon that I 

Am sure you'll gi*ant — That stayed, his trial be, 

Till, from his sickness he is free, or till, 

xit least, his mind is sane, his intellect 

Ee stored !" 

'' The old man, did she say ?" a Judge 
Exclaimed. " Is then Lavergnc an aged man ?" 
'' More than sixty !" another said. •' 'Tis strange ! 
She cannot love him ! Why ! Citizeness 
Lavergne ! Thou art possessed ! beautiful and 
Young thou art — a finer woman I have 
Never seen ! in nature's \dew, thy husband 
His share of years has had — in mercy to 
His lovely wife, we'll j^ack him off. 'Tis fair 
That he should go — he cannot complain — as 
I once heard a quaint old priest observe, ^^he 



i1 



jjike a shock of corn will go" — well, Dumas 
What is the rest ? thou once wast thick with priests ! 
** Oh don't ask me, we have no corn in France !" 
** Precious little, I will confess. Oh yes ! 
My fair Lavergne ! favor to thee we'll show, 
And then, round one so fair and young, suitors 
Thick, as grapes in old Provence, will croAvd, and 
A husband, young, loving, active, thou wilt 
Choose, and do thy duty pleasantly to 
France !" 

Shrinking, trembling, flushing, growing pale. 
The Countess heard these shameful words, and seemed 
About to fall ; but quelling nature with 
An effort great, firm remained. Stung by the 
Insults too great to bear, her pure spirit 
Sprang at last, and from her eyes in brilliant 
Indignation spoke, Noble there she stood, 
Beautiful at bay. She faced the Judges 
With a look they ne'er forgot, exclaiming 
Loud^ 



48 



'^ And dare you accuse of treason Count 
Lavergne ? lie, wlio has bled on fifty fields 
For France ! Dare you accuse, without a i^rcof, 
A man, whose stainless name the archives of 
His Country protect, defend ! and dare you 
In the sight of God, and France, to your mock 
Trial bring a man so true, one ^yllom now, 
A fierce disease has struck, and rifled of 
His mind ! who cannot hear, nor answer a 
Word you speak — who now, perhaps, expires ; while 
You his enemiePj his Judges, and his 
Accusers too, in full vigor of your 
Minds remain ! If you dare, upon your heads 
All of heaven's just maledictions, will 
I call. I love my husband, and with him 
Remain -— and did I not, think ye, I could 
Forget 1 am his wife ? In either case 
My duty would I do, never will I 
Wed again— no ! never, if angels wooed I'' 

Within the room a low sound arose. 'Twas 



49 



Nature's answering chords — vibration vast — 
The universal thrill — but low and faint, 
As through some instrument unstrung, sighs the 
Wandering wind, 

'SShe Avill imdo us all !" a Judge exclaimed. 
"My fair Lavergne ! the fervor which you plead 
For husband such as thine, is, we declare, 
Most unnatural excess, and shows thy 
Mind insane ; for this, v>ith other reasons 
Good, we thy prayer deny. Betire, we 
Hear no more ; in next session we i:>roceed 
Thy husband to arraign, diseasod or well, 
Insensible or not !" 

''Oh just God!" the 
Countess said ; ''hearest Thou ? see'st Thou ?" and 
Hurried from the hall. 

One hope remained. 01 
The Tribunal, a member not present 
There, had been at Roussillon a guest. Him 



50 



She knew, and to liis house she sped. He was 
A man whose face and form, were fair displayed 
In manhood's full, broad dawn ; and one whose 
Influence great, was with his colleagues, known. 
Eloquent and polished, learned in all the 
Schools, of rich estate, and of good descent ; 
But honor had grown dim, within his breast. 
Him, in his new career, reluctantly 
The Countess sought, but knowledge of his power, 
Constrained. Quick to his mansion, her rapid 
Way she found. — ^^ The Countess of Lavergne !" he 
Said. '' Madam, this honor is" — kneeling at 
His feet, her slender hands she clasp'd, and on 
His faco fixed her beseeching eyes, whence, tears 
Sparkling and pure as heaven's melodious 
Bills, fast iDoured, and her bursting heart expressed. 

' • O friend of hai^pier days ! to thee I 
Come, my last, my only hoi3e ! where can I 
Go for aid, if not to thee ? Beneath the 



51 



>Skies of RoussiUon, thou like me wast born, 

And in its vales, our earliest years were 

Passed. On the same mountains blue, our youthful 

Eyes were fixed, and the same streams, our straying 

Feet surveyed — their rix)pling voices, all, now 

Plead for me — thou know'st each scene of all those 

Generous vales, and heard the vintage song, 

On all their slopes. Roussillon, and my dear 

Father, well thou knew. He was thy friend, and 

Greatly did esteem, and none did |)lease him 

More beneath our roof. My friend ! that roof 

Has sank — the old Chateau is all in ruins 

NoAV, and 'neath their lonely pile, my father's 

Whit'ning bones neglected lie — My God ! how 

Can I live ? — In prison is my husband, 

With treason charged, delirious with a 

Sore disease — dying i^erhaps — before the 

Committee have I been, to ask delay. 

Which they refuse, and will try him now — to- 

Day — Thou know'st how false the charge— thou know'st the 



52 



Monstrous injustice of his trial now. 

And with those men great influence dost thou 

Have — delay his trial I implore, till 

He recovered is — save an innocent and 

Virtuous man I — save ! — save my husband I — oh ! 

My friend ! and my weak lips, must feeble he, 

Beneath their weight of thanks — but oh ! each throb 

Of this iDOor, breaking heart, will be a prayer 

To God for thee !" 

Sobbing she ceased, and his 
Feet embraced. Her bow'd head, gracefid in 
Agony, and long falling hair, still plead 
"Nritli language that i^ierced the soul, and in the 
Silent room, her convulsive sighs, rose with 
Eloquence unutterable. 

Raising 
The Countess from her lowly x)lace, a seat 
To her he brought, and thiis addressed. 

' ' Much do I 
Grieve, dear Countess of Lavergne, to see thy 



53 



Great distress. Deex^ly do I muiirii, to liear 

Tlie sad events, tlion dost relate. Tliey do 

Afflict me witli tlivself . Tliy father Avas 

Of the order old ; a Noble— brave and 

True ; of honor high, and just to all ; his 

Murderers I destroy, but there must end — 

We cannot restore that beloved form. 

Which, at the gate of Roussillon, alike 

The lowly and the great did ^^elcome there 

With hospitable smiles, but his remains 

We can restore — in ancient burial 

Ground, where his fathers rest, lay them in peace. 

Metliinks I see the green, and cpiiet si^ob, 

Where the sunbeams silent sleei) — its grey and 

Mossy stones, its long and rustling grass — I 

Hear the cricket's stilly sigh — the brook's low 

Yoice, and whispering elms. Tlie plea.*- ant days 

At Eoussillon, will ne'er again return. 

The old Chateau, can now, no welcome give, 

To there returxi ~ 'twould lu'cak thy heart, and thoii 



Must seek for liapi:)iness elsewhere," ^' Ah, yes !" 

The Countess sighed, *'Iu heaven 1" •' Thy husband is 

A noble man, the charge of treason is 

Absurd, but, he is obnoxious, veiy. 

To the State." -'^ Oh, sir !" '^ Well, to those who riUe, 

Great is his danger, he cannot be saved. 

•• Oh my God I" " Madam, hear me, I inj^^lore, 

My influence, thou dost mag-uify, all 

Will I do, but him I cannot save, it 

Is my duty, painful, to tell thee so. 

But, Madam I gi-owing old thy husband is, 

Soon, in the coiu'se of natui'e, he must die, 

And thou be left alone " "' Xo not alone !" 

The Countess said, ' ' Madam I of thy ancient 

Family, thou art the last — no brother, 

No kindred dost thou have — hear me. I ask. 

Oh I Countess of Lavergiie ! Friend dearest, ' • Friend 

Of haiDi^ier days, I the suppliant, 

Xow bend to thee ! Before another day. 

Thy husband Avill be dead, — thy presence, words, 



00 



Do fill my soul, with thoughte long absent there — 
Nature pure, and fresh, smiles on my jaded 
Heart, and holds her wooing arms — grandly call 
The Pyrenees — l^oyhood's days with their young 
Faces rise, the mintage song sweet echoes 
On my ear, mellow and soft, far o'er the 
Autumn hills — accept the keeping of my 
Constant heart, my hand, my fortune, my all 
Devoted life — beyond the western sea 
From Prance we'll fly, and I will worship thee 
'Xeath other skies — or to some vale we'll sti*ay — 
Some spot sequestered, sweet, and lone, far in 
Oiu- native South, or soft Italian cUmc — 
To Roussillon, if 'tis thy wish — the old 
Chateau rebuilt — restored in all things as 
Before. There vriH I bear thee, my adored, 
My angel bride — there, will I cherish thee, 
And woo thee to forget. Ne'er shall I riew 
Another like to thee — oh creature all 
Di\'ine ! Thou art France's centru-v flower — 



56 



The rarest blossom of lier ardent soil — 
Thy young heart's deepest love, Lavergne cannot 
Possess. Oh Countess ! hear my soul, behold 
Me at thy feet !" 

With eyes, wherefrom, new tears 
Their glistening courses rolled, she saw his 
Earnest face upturned, and sorrowing heard the 
Fervent words, that from his heart rushed with the 
Ardor of sincerity, with timid, 
Anxious touch, her suitor she rei)laced, and 
Thus, did answer him. 

'' My friend ! sincere thou 
Art ! the instinct of my heart assures me 
So. But, the glow thou feel'st for me, I can 
Ne'er return. Be assured, my husband, doth 
Indeed possess, the deepest, war)nest, first 
And only love my heart will e'er enshrine* 
He is a man, whose quahties are such, 
That my ideal is dis^^layed in him — 
A stainless mirror, that doth still reflect 



57 



In these coiTupted,- and MLlisloyal days, 

The Knightly faith, and chivahy of yore, 

High courtesy, and bearing calm, and brave. , ,^ . .,. 

And, 1 do love him well, esteem, regard, 

Have ripened into fruit of fairer Ime, 

And richer fragrance to x:>erfume my heart. 

When first to Eoussillon he came, I knew 

Not love, with nature, were my years enjoyed, 

And I, from her received a generous 

Lore, not learned in haunts of men. The mountains v. 

Eaised me to their lofty breasts, massive, x^nre — . y. ,, 

The streams, the^glades, the sunny slopes where Spring 

Her carols sang, or golden Autumn sle^^t, 

Deep in my youthful soul inwove, nature's 

Eternal poetry and truth : Beneath 

My father's tender care to maidenhood 

I grew. He, and his servants all, were those 

Advanced in years, thus familiar I grew 

With age — thoughtful, mature, like one of them. 

And such companions naturally did 



68 



Love, The deeds of Coitnt Lavei*gne were oft my 
Father's theme ; his character, and friendshii) 
My father's boast — thus, did I learn to love, 
Eevere the Count — and, when he sought my hand, 
A conclusion natural it did seem, 
It pleased my father, and my hand I gave." — 
*' Countess ! it wa3, methinks, a grateful deed !" 
^' He bore me from my home, and though his head 
Is white, his tenderness has filled my soul 
With love for him, ardent as^hat, which he 
Doth bear to me. My friend ! thy lips might win 
The proudest heart, but they are poor beside 
The homage of my husband's look ! now must 
I go to^^him. A last appeal I make. 
And in this city gi*eat, I have none but 
Thee to hear. I do implore thee hj our 
Native skies — by all the days of innocence 
And peace — by my father's friendshiiD unto 
Thee — by the memory of her — thy friend, 
Who once, Marie of Boussillon was called — 



59 

By all that is revered, and dear to tliee, 
Rescue my father's dear remains, and lay 
Them with my husband's and my own, in the 
Old ground t)f Roussillon. " 

'^Lady ! why dost 
Thou speak of death, they will not murder thee !" 
*^ My husband will I not survive !" — " And wilt 
Thou die ! Thou too die ! My God ! 'Tis horror ! 
But thee, will I save !" ^' Thou canst not without 
My husband ! adieu forever here ! To 
Him I go !" '' Stay ! Marie of Roussillon ! 
Yet a moment stay ! If thou dost leave me 
So, thou leav'st remorse, despair, forever 
In my soul — soon, from Paris I depart. 
Never to return. Thy presence here hath 
Been a beauteous ray, wherein that I 
Have seen my honor tarnished, and truer 
Manhood stained. These will I brighten by a 
Noble life — oh ! thy forgiveness speak, if 
Aught, I've wounded thee ! — and wilt thou thus 



60 



Depart *? Ah ! never, shall I see thee more, 

Nor hear thy voice again ! Farewell ! Farewell 

Forever, Flower of Eoussillon !" *'No ! 

Not forever, dear friend — if thou dost choose — 

Beyond the arch of heaven, there is a shore 

Wliere earth's poor children meet again !" ''I do 

Believe it now I Oh yes ! I'm now assured 

And ne'er shall doubt it more — for thou, sweet 

Angel knowest of thy home ! Thy husbani 

I cannot save, but I can save myself — 

That will I do, and meet thee, see thee there !" 

Soft o'er Atlantic wave the genial sun 
Carried the pensive hours — the closing houi's 
Of that mild Autumn day ! On slopes of Loire, 
On vales of Languedoc, on Pyrenees, 
On fields of Normandy, on viny hills 
That laughing Provence shows, on streets Parisian, 
Spires, and roofy sea, the mellow beams fell 
Like caresses, languid, still, and sweet. 



GI 



But not with nature in kind sympathy, 

Was Paris, or the men who governed there, 

Swaying the power of empii-e in France ; 

More blood they craved, insatiate and fierce — 

xlnd now, in ev'ning session were convened. 

Before them, on a mattrass rude, lay the 

Count Lavergne. Fitful, and wavering, o'er 

His mind reason threw her parting hght, as 

Oft, she does, when death the signal gives. With 

Faint, and feeble, dying voice, he answers 

Seemed to give, to the few questions asked, and 

Then, unconscious sank. The final sentence 

Was pronounced, which, to immediate death 

Consigned the hapless man. By him stood his 

Wife. '* Favor to me you'll show !" she to the 

Judges said ; *^ you have condemned my husband, 

Pass sentence now on me !" '^Citizeness 

Lavergne ! France has no charge 'gainst thee !" ^* Sirs ! ye 

Say well ! France has none ! But ye shall have ! And 

Then, with voice, whose searching tones rang through the 



62 



Hall, and ^-ith terror liUed, all ^vlio heard, she 

Loud exclaimed, ' ' Live the King I Long live the King 

Of France I Live the Koyal FaniilT I Live 

The Nobility I Live the Aristocrats 

Of birth, and nature too ! Live aU that's great' 

And noble, just and good I and perish all 

That's base and evil, vile and low I Perish ye I 

YiUians accursed of heaven I You, and your base 

Eepublic, I detest, des^iise, and loathe I 

I do adore the system you've o'erthrown I 

And, do I go from hence, I'll traverse France 

With winged feet, in ev'ry vale, on ev'ry 

HlU, in palace and in cottage will I 

Stand, and shout your crimes to heaven I" — 

' • Seize her I 
Close her mouth 1 commanded an angry Judge, 
^* She is a woman who'd convulse all France ! 
She is condemn'd I we need not further proof I 
Silenced forever, shall she be I With her 
Husband, let her die I Execute them uow I 



63 



Nature "sve'U not offend ! Let her lui>sbancl 
Perisli first r 

Soon in tlie ftital Cart tliey 
Hurried to tlieii' doom. The motion aroused 
The Count, in that last hour, his reason came. 
He ope'd his sunken eyes, and fixed them on 
His wife. Love and terror mingled in tlieii- 
Glance. " FCar not !" she said, *' my husband dear !" and 
Bending pressed his lii3s. '' Fear not for me ! I 
Could not live without thee, and together 
Do we die !" 

Broad and full, on his Avestern 
Yerge, the sun majestic sank ; and backward 
Turned his level look, upon the shores of 
France* Bright o'er the guillotine, his waning 
Glories streamed, like beams of that immortal 
Life, many had there commenced. There on his 
Mattrass lay the Count Lavergne. The fading 
Splendor bathed his peaceful face. By his side 
His Angel kneltj holding his wasted handj 



64 



Her countenance serene, the joy and peace 
Of lier liigli soul expressed. Her hair unloosed 
Behind her flowed, and lay upon the plank. 
With heavy shears, one, at a blow, did cut 
The shimmering stream. It dropped like a 
Massive veil. Sudden gleamed the ^yhiteness of 
Her neck. The mould divine, of her shoulders 
Shone. All unconscious of the larceny 
Deforming, vast, with him she loved, she 
Tenderly conversed. ''Dear one!" he said, "how 
Happy thus to die, and be com'oyed by 
Thee to heaven. There, will I thank my God 
For thee — thou angel he hath lent — soon shall 
I wait for thee !" *' I know thou wilt, my 
Husband I but 'twill not be long. Oh ! I did 
Fear they would detain, nor let me go with 
Thee. But I am happy ! God hath been kind 
To me ! Few days ago, at sweet Yerlone, 
We saw the parting sun — now, beyond the 
West, lie goe^ forever from our eyes. How 



65 



Bright is earth to-day ! But soon, my husband, 

We shall be, where brighter suns will rise, and 

Softer twilights bring their dewy hours.— They 

Come for thee !" Soft, the last pressure of her 

Mortal lips, he felt — beneath the axe was 

Laid — she turned — a strange, dread sound was heard — the 

Soul of Count Lavergne waited for his bride. 

Nor waited long ! where last her huK])and's head 
Reposed, hers rested now — his blood, the j)ure, 
Snowy marble of her neck, deep stained — a 
Smile, sweet as welcoming warder's smile, at 
Heavenly gates, sj)read like a glory o'er her 
Face — uj)on the butcher there, she turned her 
Ready glance — the meek, forgiving, gentle 
Look, of those deep, tender eyes, eternal 
Anguish fixed, in his dark soul. In despair 
His hand he raised. Up the Guillotine the 
Gliding sunbeams stole ; upon the sharp, red 
Axe, thelast ray, lingering fell — it fled — 



m 



The swift descent begins — Farewell ! Farewell 
Sweet Spirit ! thon has fled from earth, and with 
Thee, carried him, w^hose head no more is white. 
For youth unfading, both on him and thee. 
It's flowery croN\'n hath placed. 

And, shall we follow them beyond the Main — 

The viewless ocean, by w^hose margin cold 

We, sorromng pilgrims stray. But see not 

Where, we tread its silent verge, and hear no 

Murmur of its voiceless tide. Sometimes, when 

Wistful, gazing toward the farther shore, 

With eyes all dimm'd with tears, and many a 

Care, through^the deep mists, that veil its darksome 

Wave, we catch thejfitful sheenof^some white 

Wing — Sometimes, when Faith, like lightning cleaves her 

Way, and part the mists along her shining 

Track, throughlthe wide rift we see far tow'ring 

O'er the flood, the golden spires, that gleaming 

In the day, mark where firm upon its twelve 



67 



Foundations kid, blazes the glorious ^ 
New Jerusalem ; and catch a glimpse of 
Skies, whose soft serene, no breath or stain, hath 
Yet, or e'er wiU mar. There ^' God doth wipe all 
Tears away." There with his flock belov'd The 
Shepherd walks. There, o'er the verdant slopes He 
Leads them on, wliere rose and amaranth 
Embowering twine — where the '^ still Avaters" 
Sleep — where happiness and love forever 
Dwell. 

Far, in the South of France, the Pyrenees 
Still high overlook the vale of Boussillon. 
There, Spring doth yet her early carols sing, 
And Autumn yet, the vintage song doth hear. 
But she who loved them so, doth hear and see 
No more. The old Chateau is crumbling all 
Away — a broken iiorch, o'er which the wild 
Yine strays, alone is seen, to mark where one 3 
It was. In the old ground where sleep its 



68 



Owners gone, the gi*ass still rustling, siglis— the 
Brook still murmnrs by ; the elms spread their shade ; 
The cricket, still his peaceful song begins. 
Three quiet graves, the last there ever made, 
Still, side by side are seen. Three mossy stones 
Grey with the flight of years, still side by side 
Remain ; and on them, three inscriptions dim. 
The passer, still may read. 




UNDEK THE BLOSSOMS. 

Under tlie blossoms ^^FJo" and I 

Bai one lingering eve in May — . 
Under the blossoms wliite and red, 

While softly closed the vernal day ; 
Streaming throngh that orchard old, 
The parting sunbeams showered their gold ; 
For brightly on the gxeen sod lay, 
The smiles of God that balmy day. 

The robin sang among the boughs, 

The oriole whistled from his tree— 
And every living thing did seem 
To join the vesper minstrelsy ; 
And lightly on my '^ Flo's" bright hair 
The fragi'ant blossoms rested fair. 
Descending on the breath of Spring, 
Like plumes from Love's encircling wing. 

"We read together from a book ; 

Our breath did mingle o'er the page ; 
It was a tale of those who loved 

In years long since — another age ; 



And oft, some warbler, flitting nigli, 
Upon lis turned his curioiis eye, 
And ev'ry sound to , evening dear 
Came lo^wnnd peaceful dn the ear. 

On the fair hills, the roiihded sun \ 

A moment seemed to pause and i*est ;' 

A moment seemed to linger there, 
Then, slowly sank beyond the west. 

From his broad disk,^ the leyel beams ,. 

Shot like a thousand golden streams, . 

And shinihg-clear Athwart, the sky, 

One brightest ray. loathed ,* ' Bio- ' an^i I, 

Her meek eyes watched that parting beam. 

Softly glide along the even, 
Till, on the topmost boughs it gleamed, 

Then, gently, was Avithdrawn to heaven ; 

'' Qh ! be my life like it," she said — 
' ' Like that fair ray of gladness fled ; 
And when I go from those I love, 
May I,^as gently, glide abore. " 



n 

Ho"s\r fondly to my 3onl I pressed x/- ,»;f4 
THe ai*deiit> ^it% '"with mppnve sm^ei^tff 
In the flusl>^d blue, tlK) vesper star , ,- 
Look'd down Upon my joy complete. 
How few, on earth, be liours so rare," ^^ 
How few, indeed, such moments are — 
A happier hotfr I lie''er shall know-^ '" ' 
Under the blossoms with my ^''Floi'^ 

THE DEATH OF JOM tii^ "BtjfeEN. 

From Europe'^ grey and ancient shor^, 
A steamei» ' Inmed her * w^y >; . \ 

And freshly o'er her fegbj'Jcs^' p4"0^i^ j^^rt^ 
The billows threw their spray. . 

Behiri^'b^i^ii^se the to • ■ 

Before her set in light ; 
The rapid; beatjiig of hei: wheels^ i. .y]^ 
Awoke the lonely night, 

And like the petrel's tireless wing, ' 
She sped along her palb, .''/'**"" "''*'^^' 
She swiftly trod the azure plaiti;^'"'" ' 
Nor feared the billow's wratli.'' " 



1i 

Her smoke streamed out upon tlie wastej 
Like some dark plume to sight ; 
Or, on the far horizon hung, 
To mark her xlistant flight. 

From out the morning light she flew — 
Through sunset's golden bars — 
Her midnight track the ocean lit 
With phosphorescent stars. 

On, on she s^jed, her iron pulse 
Throbb'd full, and fast, and high — 
The noble steamer seemed to haste — 
She bore one soon to die. 

But swifter than her whirring wheels, 
AzrieP swept along, 
His dark wing fann'd the ocean wave— 
His wdngs so wide and strong. 

And viewless o'er her deck he camc^ 
Awaiting there a soul ; 
His stature tower'd to the sky, 
His wings touched eitlier pole . 

'■'■'• Aiijiel of (l(;atli; 



75 

And high the mighty Angel stood, ■ -i.^h 
With solemn face, and fair; ,-i{[ 

He beiit to hear the earnest words, * 

That rose uioon the air. 

Within the narrow cabin lay, 
A tall and manly f orm— 
The form of one a nation loved — 
A noble heart and warm. 

Aronnd him stood a monrnful group—. 
A daughter wept her sire ; 
And sterner faces wept to see 
His useful life expire . 

He knew them not, nor even her 
The solace of his years ; 
Her tender words unheeded fell— 
His eyes saw not her tears. 

The statesman's troubled mind had fled, 
Far o'er the swelling main ; 
And sought .the dear and native shore 
His feet ne'er trod again. 



76 



Once more he takes the cHngiug hands 
His countrymen extend — 
Once more he hears the ringing shouts. 
Where thousand voices blend. 



xigain the eager people throng, 
His earnest words to hear — 

His sparkling wit — his satii-e keen — 

„. Til -1 V • '=? \wnM$^l 
His high appeals, and clear. 



And to the loftj, bi-illiant hall, 
Pour on the brave and fau% 
And anxious thousands force tlieir way, 
To gain an entrance there. 



The audience vast in silence wait — 

Around a murmur runs— 

And then— such cheers as freemen give 

To freedom's noblest sons. 



He speaks— "O Countrymen ! once more, 
Before you now I stand, 
And raise my dying voice to save, 
Have our glorious land. 



t7 

Long torn by faction, liate, and strife, "^ 
Our panting country lies ; 
Bind up her wounds with love and peace, 
Or ev'ry prospect dies. 

These bitter feuds she cannot hear— 
These struggles waste her life ; 
And evil men her councils fill, 
With evil passions rife; 

And dark the ends for which they toil,:. 
They strive with deadly hate, 
An endless vengeance to bequeath, . ^\ 
And fire each hostile State. 



Oh ! from your councils spurn the men, ^ 
Who act this baneful part — 
Forget, forgive, wipe out the i^ast, 
And brothers be in heart. ' ' ' 



Forgive the erring — help the weak - 
Beceive with kindly hands — '■ 
This "Nvill restore, this bright revive 
Our Union's fading bands. 



78 

No North, no Soittli, no East, no West, 
Columbia's sons should know ; 
One flag, one country, and one pride 
Should make each bosom glow. . 

The pride of country broad and free, 
A pride right nobly shown. 
When ev'ry State and home we guard, 
As we would guard our own. 

Thus shall we win the smile of Heaven - 
Thus, blest and happy be ; 
Until the final Angel's trump. 
Shall sound o'er land and sea. 

Hush'd were his lips -^ A^iriel heard 
A warning voice afar ; 
And with one sweep, his sombre wings 
Shot past the faintest star. 

Gone — the iDatriot's soul to God — 
His parting words remain — 
Oh ! let us heed, and to our land, 
Give joy and f6^t again, 



^'LAY ME UNDEK THE SUNSHINE.' 

THE LAST WORDS OF ARCHBISHOP HUGHES. 

*'Lay me under tlie sunshine," oh lay me gently there ; 

Where soft the cheerful radiance falls, 

Like God's response to prayer. 

I ask no labored monument, 

No Parian marble rare — 

''Lay m.e under the sunshine," Iny me gently there. 

I love the cheerful sunshine, I love its blessed rays, 

They speak of hope and joy and life, 

And heaven's refulgent days. 

Like God's smiles they seem to me, 

Shining through all the air — 

''Lay me under the sunshine." lay me gently there, 

I love the glorious sunshine, 1 love its golden rays, 

They bring me back my youth again, 

And all its happy days. 

They tell of fields, and woods, and streams, 

And birds and flowers so fail' — 

"Lay me under the sunihine," lay me gently there. 

They laid him in the sunshine, in church built by his 
care : 



80 

War -11 tlirongli tlie lofty windows rour 
Gods smiles uoon him there. 
'*^^li^'ii%^:r^brl^tly o'gr 

•Jhey heard 1;fe"godd^ man *s pra^ 

*'Lay me under the slifrsliine,'' lay ihe gently "fli^ 



TO EMILY. 

Fresh on thy lips the flush of morning shines, 
And, in thine eyes^ the pure, celestial blue, : 
Oh ! thou art |a,i\' as soiji^ young angeFs dream^,^. 
Pillowed on fleecy cloud of summer skies ; 
And soft thy voice, as tiinid echo dies 
Along some languid, far-embosomed stream; - '. 
And glows thy form where every beauty shines. 
As glows the year on autumn's mazy vines. 

^N6t tfc4" fifflit&be ' of • thy~!form so fair, 
Full drawls my^sd^lbahe&,i>h thy tender sway ; ':;-^ 
The charms enchanting, of thy richer mind, 
Rise like thfe sun -in brighter beauty dressed — 
So, x)ale the orbs before his dazzling crest. li 

.5*iW1leii m^thy-prasence my i-apt self I find — . t ' 
'lis some poor owlet in the blaze of day, 

<^ WoT^W,i^ Ay 1ie^rtj>er6i3iT?fe its fistful 1^^ 



weabily: 

Wearily, Autumn, thy listless steps end, 
Slow roll3 the year, with the langu©^ of "^^^s^-p. 
Low hangsi tha night; from tli^ ,wiMrg3eowii^g» sk^H 
Brief, • and Teceding, the somlire^ days ^i(M.- -4 

' Glide silent away — procession of * moriKs, 
Each by himself, with eves down-cast and sg^d : 
Slow-mQviix§, cowl'd monks,, all y^ni^hing„,wl|eire 
Dimly, the twilight receives the "dim mgiit^vdr.-?!' 

Eeceives the dim night from the hdlid^bfil]fe'"^8Cst - 
Hands cold and impassive, with aspliodefe wreath'd - 
Hands pointing fore'er to graves they have £x'd y- 
Gravas, where they buried the, lost. lipipr^r^fr light. 

Hours epitaphed, buried deep in the -heart, -i" '- 
Haunted by forms from the silent Uhktibwh-—' ' '' 
Haunted by V01C3S, whose mystic tones floa^ 
Back from their flight with the music of loye, ,, 

Weep, dark pro session ! weep, monies of t}i9 year ! 
Tears- are becoming, ye la^t autumn days iro r > 
Weep, as ye enter the grey crypts of tiiiie^ ;'V?'».'. 
W6ep a^f^efeear all oiif dead'ho^^^ awayf '*' '' " 



IN THE DESEET.^ 

Yes Anna ! many days liave dawned on earth, 
Since I did look upon thy gentle face : 

How many more, will have their rosy birth, 
Ere I, again, shall see thy form of graee ? _ 

Ere I, again, beneath thy smile shall rest. 

And hear thy tender voice, and fold thee to my breast. 

No friendly sprite, or ling'ring fairy, kind. 
On wings so soft, and Hght, an answer brings : 

No tiny voices, whisper to my mind ; 

The fairies, leave not now, their verdant rings ; 

From India's steep, or some far ocean isle, 

They come not now, as once, to make iis weep or smile. 

And, I invoke them not, they could not tell, 

Of hours more blest, than what to us hath been. 

That fragxant past, within my soul doth dwell ; 
A lov'd oasis, in this world of sin. 

Nor earth, or time, that dear delight can change ; 

For, it is mine for aye, no strength can that estrange. 

Here, let me live, in this enshrined past ; 

Here, let me wander, where no change can mar ; 
Nor, trust to fate, the horoscope to cast. 

Of other hours, 'neath joy's entrancing star. 
Here, may I dwell secure, nor ever grieve ; 
For here, I'm with thee still, and ev'ry hope believe. 



83 



Thus can I pass, adow^i life's deep'ning vale, 
And find on eartli, a world, like that above : 

A sunny nook, where cares cannot assail ; 
Nor fear to los3 the opulence of love. 

Here Anna, if thy heart should changeful be, 

Here, soft, thy farewell speak, and take thy leave of me. 

From this bright spot, I'll watch thy fading form, 
'Till, thou, from all my hopes art i^ast away ; 

And, when no more, those hopes my bosom warm, 
Down the lone vale in musing silence stray : 

And ever, when two happy hearts I see. 

To this oasis come, and dream anew of thee , 



TO THE CHIMNEY SWALLOW. 

Dear, twittering bird ! that, with thy sharp feet clings 

To some old chimney, brown and sooty — ■ 

Diving, like thought, into its dusky throat — • 

And hanging there, thy little careless nesfc — 

I love thee well, my diving friend — 

My quaint and funny friend — 

In thy plain costume drest. 

It is very plain, I own, but just the thing — - 
A neatly, sober suit for ev'ry day ; 
Which thou art noi} the least afraid to soil, 
As well I know, — for thee I often hear 
Scratching and scrambling up the brick. 



84 



Wlieii 'clay's first bdard^ Uppeai* . ^^ '^^ " 

Thy voice, I too must bWli,' wa^ iio1!'ifladCro?'ipijff — 
But in cbiiversatiori: tlibti do^t'blifce V '^^; '^'^'^^ 
-^•^^ To liear tliee diatter BHsklj^'Mtll^&^^ii^ 
Is pleasant, in the early morning gray ^-^ ^ 
WheA thou with great acto and dih,/'^' '^'" ^^^ * 
Dost waken all ^t'ithin,' •.,.•■.. 

And soon dost speed away, 

And launch thee in the sMes-—j by o\is','far'%K6\%''^'* 
Thy humble dweliilig^' thy "Hght^iing'S 'skim' -^' "'-^ 
The dewy air, in morning's freshest hour ; 
And dart among the sun's a,sjc ending r^^-ams,- 
Before the tall hills flush in gold, 
^, V 1 i Or th e l3rigiit iio o d is rolled .. [ 

O'er vales and winding, streams. ,:;.(■; ];£„ ^uiin:*^ './L 

On long, , gliding vdngs^: throiigh alJ.jth.^.-su»ioi^j^L(|.ay, " 
Thy hours are passed— in jpy and ligZit.;>ifj ^/<>j T 
Thy i^inions tire not in tli^ noontide heafc^jro tM 
Fresh as at jnime, they cut itheaii'y.deepjq r {.j jr? 
And circle there in greceful play, 
Then suddeu shoot away, ■ ■.• ^-o. I ,jsl:ii^{ 'rL-rr ri ll 
And o'er the vrarm earth STyee|)i;j<< i^vJog t^Ii#»t>c[ A 
, :■ .- •': ...:;.l:j ,r<-.-«i -i:.^: hni ij- 'ioA-t ih^iTH' 
Thus through the ardent da^.-ibidrVk^iLe^iisog-i^eek. 
Thoughtful and sIqw adi^'aneea a' er tha^ ^%i4i^b;i*>«^ 



m 

Oft, liaiT«J<&eeiiithee. linger fetiir'atplti;^^ ^ -^ • ' h':L 
Amid her flowing-tress'es eool und dim ; '^ • '^''• 
'Till, mthiher.-^met hand,; she prest,^^^- . 
•^Ajad^drbjit! til ee ■ iai thy • nest -^ 
When -past th.^ve^'p eihy locm. 

There is, mj winged friend. One f a'milia'r' i*oof , ' 
Whose large chimney ever sheltered thee — , 
Our friendsliip 'there began and firm has been ; ' 
There we did live in life's sweet vernal time-- 
How m^any weaiy years have sped, 
How many 'joys have fled, . 
Since thos3 young days of mine. 

Nigh to the chimney, and thy curious nest, 
My-3Jttl^.^beik iW^'Si placed ; the dong roof : 
Sloping o'er — with- thee I sank to sleep, . 
Soothed by the stillness, - or the gentle rain ,-— 
And woke, fte <i*0i^ tliy matin glee^ 
As innocent as thee ^ — .v 
Ah ! would I were again. 

Dear, humble, little bird ! we are cemrades stall ; 

And equal, ilow, seems our lowly lot ; ' ' •»'^''^ 

No brilliant 'iiotes, or plumage fair, is thine— 

No place for me among the rich and gteat, 

Yet closer to' ►sweet nature's breiist ;■; ^'-' 

We steal, and softer rest, ^ 

Nor wish their empty state . ■ ^ 

• • biV i^i^i >^V/. hilA 



86 



And thou art social, too, oft, reminding me 
Of some other friends, that I have seen 
Dive in a twinkling, ofi the crowded street ; 
And soon have found them in some twilight place 
Where sayings good, and genial glass. 
Around do quickly pass 
When these quick divers face . 

Gentle lessons thou hast ever taught to me ; 

And not all in vain, I ween, or lost. 

A philosophic teacher thou hast been — 

Whose dim abode, and circumstances poor, 

Exclude not cheerfulness and love ; 

Or words, that from above 
Call wtues which endure. 

The scorn of fortune, and rich perfume the heart. 

Thus, shining amaranthine flowers, 

Emblems of pure happiness in heaven — 

Bloom beneath the lowliest roof of earth, 

All their immortal sweetness shed. 

And peace, and pleasure spread. 

Around the humblest hearth. 

Dear, twittering bird ! in thy old chimney dark. 

Cheerful resting through the silent night — 

May I, on earth, as cheerfully abide, 

Till morning breaks, and ev'ry shadovf flies, 

Oh ! happy, joyous then, like thee. 

May I that glory see, 

And soar into the skies. 

C 32 89 * 















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